A Return to Normalcy
by ibohemianam
Summary: A continuation of my Clint-throwing, dealing with the aftermath of a near-disaster.
1. Chapter 1

_I'm back... Kind of. I've been wracking my brain for writing ideas, and after a week spent chasing around seventy little crazy primary school kids (READ: after a week of sleep deprivation), I came up with this while brushing my teeth last night. Forgive the incoherence. I think I have a child-hangover. The title of this thing just goes to show how crazy I am._

* * *

He knew that when sleep came, there would be nothing he could do. With sleep came dreams. With dreams came new terrors every night. Of course, he was no stranger to nightmares. In his line of work as assassin/alien-killer/former brain-washed robot, there were always sights, sounds that would worm themselves deep into his mind and curl up in a dusty box that remained forgotten during the day but snapped open into painful existence the moment he closed his eyes. He would slam back into wakefulness, hand automatically reaching for the quiver that he kept concealed behind the bed, pre-strung bow yanked from its position as a headrest. Sometimes, if he was away, it would be a knife drawn in the dark from his belt, hands ready, bracing for the blow that would not come. The terror would remain for an hour, the nightmares a few sleepless nights, and then it would be back to normal, light, dreamless sleep. Normal. Whatever that was.

* * *

Steve sat perched on a barstool at the kitchen counter, bowl of milk-drowned, half-eaten Cheerio's in front of him, the morning paper spread beyond that, one dampened corner drooping into the sink. He ignored it. Ads declaring "WE HAVE GREAT SEX (with the help of…)" did not belong on the face of this planet, let alone plastered across half the sports page. With a rustle of newsprint, he turned the page, forsaking the article on the Stanley Cup Finals for the result of the American League pennant race. Baseball trumped hockey any day. He slurped up another spoonful of soggy Cheerio's, narrowly catching a drop of milk before it splattered across the score box. The utensil slipped from his hand and clanged off the counter with an alarming jangle, clattering to the tiled floor.

A not-quite-muffled curse echoed from the den down the hall.

Steve frowned. No one ever slept in the den. Unless Tony passed out again. But no, there had been no drinking contest last night. Fury's orders. Slipping down off the stool, Steve cautiously padded out of the kitchen to the den, where the door was slightly ajar. Peeking into the darkened room, he vaguely made out a lump curled up on the couch against the wall. He tapped lightly on the door.

"It's Steve," he said softly, "Everything alright?"

"Peaches, Princess," growled the voice within, "It's too early for God to be up. Go away."

Smothering a smile, Steve cocked an eyebrow, "Have it your way, Buttercup."

Another very much un-muffled curse and Steve quickly shut the door behind him. Clint had never been much of a morning person, rising with a scowl and always trooping in several minutes late to Fury's detested morning briefings. Terse words and much-censored cursing were his staples before noon. Even Natasha knew to lie low until the coffee (or Coke, or beer, on a bad day) kicked in. He was like a bear with a bad head cold. Steve crammed the last of the Cheerio's into his mouth and gulped down the remaining milk. He glanced at the large digital clock above the fridge. Six ten. Civilian time. Snapping the paper shut, he tossed it to the opposite corner of the counter, letting it glide over the smooth marble surface before coming to a rest by a potted plant, courtesy of Bruce and his recent botany experiments. Steve rinsed off the bowl and stuck it into the dish washer, tossing the spoon in after it. He stood, stretched, then decided that the firing range currently held much greater appeal than a desk full of incident reports needing to be completed. Hooking a foot under the dish washer door, he let it thump shut, then jogged off down the stairs.

* * *

_Please don't hesitate to smash me over the head if this is as bad as I think it might be. _


	2. Chapter 2

_Short chapter warning._

* * *

_Smoke clouds wisp away through the creaking cables, leaving fingerlike tendrils that delicately grasp the rails before being gently sifted away by the ever-shifting wind. The bridge groaned beneath him, moaning, warning. Something was not right. All of them could sense it. All of them could feel the inaudible rumbling, the high-pitched thrum of intensity, energy waiting to explode. He could hardly make out the rest of the team below him through the dense fog. Those thermal imaging goggles really would have come in handy right about now. An arrow was already knocked, bow half-drawn as he sat perched atop one of the red-gold arches, ignoring the chill that threatened to freeze his limbs. A sudden gust nearly sent him tumbling, and in that instant of distraction, a familiar voice crying out from below, and then he was falling—_

The knife was already in his hand by the time he realized what had happened. Breathing heavily, he slammed the knife back into its sheath and angrily dashed the sweat from his forehead, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't planned on drifting off down here. It was so blasted hot in here, though his hand was chill even through his hair. He let it all back into his lap, staring disconsolately at the sunlight filtering in through the slatted blinds, illuminating the clock on the far wall, which read a cheerful ten-oh-six. Civilian time. He would _have_ to get Tony to change that. They were the most violent civilians on the planet.

_May as well get up_, he sighed, shrugging aside the lingering terror that left a worn muzziness to his mind. Gingerly swinging his legs off the couch, he groped around the armrest and grabbed the aluminum crutches that would be his armpits' companions for the next month or so. Careful not to put weight on his right foot, he levered himself up into a standing position, positioning the crutches under his arms, and clacked on over to the door, taking a moment to steel himself before yanking it open and having his eyeballs assaulted by the cheerful sun's morning glare.


	3. Chapter 3

_Good heavens. This summer has turned out to be a great deal crazier than I anticipated... and unfortunately, I'm not done flying/driving/running around the world yet. Huge apologies for the long gap periods that will, unfortunately, continue through this month. In the meantime, please continue to read (and review, if you'd like) this soon-to-be-incredibly-convoluted story because I can't seem to remember where it was that I left off..._

* * *

Bruce tossed his head back and dry swallowed a few Tylenol. Today would be a long day, judging by the pounding that had already begun in his temples.

"JARVIS, could you draw the curtains, please? It's a bit bright this morning."

"Certainly, Mr. Banner. Might I also recommend a—"

"—No, shut up," growled a voice down the hall, "Don't need any more talking."

Bruce turned with raised eyebrows, making a great effort to sound as cheery as possible, "And a good morning to you too, Clint!"

Clint leveled a blistering glare at him. _Hmmm…_ Bruce thought mildly _Hawkeye could be Deatheye. Not that big of a transition there._ The doctor amiably slid the half-empty box of Cheerio's along with a clean bowl and spoon to the glowering thundercloud on the opposite side of the counter. Clint snatched them up with a grunt, sloshing a stream of cereal into the bowl and viciously stabbing the spoon into the crunchy sea. Bruce sat silently across from him, nursing a cup of freshly brewed tea and struggling to gauge the archer's mood. Clint, ignoring him, crammed the last of the cereal into his mouth, then reached for his crutches and stiffly got to his feet, making his way around the counter to the coffee pot by the fridge. Bruce knew better than to offer assistance.

The silence continued as Clint downed a cup of black coffee, tossing the empty mug into the dish washer, then slamming the door shut. He crutched out of the kitchen down the stairs.

_Little surprise as to what he'll be doing down there,_ Bruce thought, taking another sip of slightly chilled tea and relishing the peace in the kitchen. Mr. Stormy Weather was gone.

"Tony said no, Thor. Find something else to throw without compromising the structural integrity of this building, please."

Thor looked about as close to sulking as a god could get.

"I could throw Mjölnir _gently_, Steve Rogers. I have not laid hand on it for nearly a fortnight! Certainly, I deserve time with my own weapons."

Steve set down his rifle in despair, feeling more than ever like a hired babysitter rather than the "Captain" of the world's saviors. "If you want to throw the thing so badly, go up on the roof and set up a few targets. Just don't hit a plane or anything," he sighed, removing his protective lenses and wiping the sweat from his forehead. It was rather stuffy down here. Tony would have to take a look at the ventilation.

A broad grin spread across Thor's face, though Steve already began to have hints of misgiving growing in his stomach. "You are a wise man, Steve Rogers!" Thor boomed, clapping a large hand on Steve's shoulder, "I shall require some assistance from Doctor Banner. This shall be much fun." He stomped off up the stairs, hammer in hand.

Shaking his head wryly, Steve replaced his lenses and earmuffs, bringing the gun to his shoulder. As he did, he caught sight of a shadow moving down the stairs. Curious and more than ready for a break, he checked his watch and was surprised to find that he had been squinting down the sights of numerous guns for nearly four hours. He shook his head and decided that enough was enough. Guns should not be his obsession. He had just set the rest of his gear down and trigger-locked his gun when Clint clicked into the room, unshaven and reeking of strong coffee.

"'Morning," Steve greeted, pulling his earplugs out and shaking his head in a vain effort to ease the tingling in his ears.

Clint grunted in reply, seizing a small-caliber handgun from his locked chest, slamming lenses onto his face and ramming on a battered pair of earmuffs.

Steve reached for his own earplugs, shoving them back into place as he sputtered, "Whoa, whoa, what are you—"

BLAM.

Steve cringed as the gunshot echoed painfully in the enclosed space.

BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.

Steve slowly removed his hands from his ears, staring cautiously at Clint, who was glaring down the range at the target as if it had committed a grievous crime.

"Uuhh… Everything alright?" Steve croaked over the ringing in his ears.

"_Perfect_," Clint growled, slamming down the handgun.

Without another word, he tucked the crutches under his arms and turned back up the stairs, leaving the still-slightly-smoking gun behind.


	4. Chapter 4

_Whew! Long chapter (by my standards, at least). I thought I might get one in before flying halfway around the world and disappearing again. Just a warning: I'm writing a lot faster (read: sloppier) than I usually do, so my grammar, punctuation, etc. is probably not up to scratch. Please ignore all ridiculous typos! :)_

* * *

Tony Stark awoke to a sound renowned for its soothing qualities: that of heavy machinery. He lay in bed for a few long moments, eyes closed, struggling to comprehend why on earth a steam shovel would be going off above his head at—he cracked his eyes open and glared at the clock on the far wall—eleven o'clock in the _morning_. It wasn't even _noon_ yet. He screwed his eyes shut and smashed a pillow over his face in a vain attempt of muffle the noise.

After a few more minutes of agonizingly loud scraping and groaning, he hurled the pillow across the room and, from flat on his back, bawled at the ceiling, "JARVIS! Why is there a demolition crew on my roof?"

"It appears to be that Dr. Banner has been enlisted in one of Thor's… How shall I put it? Extracurricular enrichment activities."

"Speak English, man," Tony moaned, throwing an arm across his face.

"If you wish, sir," the AI continued in that damnably chipper tone, "Thor is, with the assistance of Dr. Banner, constructing some sort of target practice on your roof in order to avoid, in Captain Rogers's words 'compromising the structural integrity of this building."

Tony mumbled into his arm, a muffled curse.

"I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that, sir."

Tony ignored him and slowly rolled out of bed, grunting at the soreness in his chest. Yanking yesterday's T-shirt from its temporary home on top of his desk lamp, he gingerly eased it over his head, then slipped into a baggy pair of sweats. Barefoot and rumpled, he slouched to the marble-tiled bathroom and plugged the sink, yawning as he waited for it to fill with cold water. Without pausing to think, he dunked his head into the shimmering pool and emerged a moment later sputtering, dripping, and most importantly, awake. Seriously, who needed _showers_?

* * *

"No, no! A little higher!" Bruce called to the crane operator who sat in his machine fifty meters away.

The last of Thor's "targets" slid smoothly into place, a rolled piece of faded carpet, salvaged from the previous "building shield-sledding" (or, as Clint liked to call it, "The Epic BS-ing") adventure, functioning as a dummy swinging from a bundle of steel poles, the remainders of the roof's handrails.

"That's good. Thanks!" the crane operator gave him a thumbs up, hopped out of the cab, and disappeared down the stairs. Phil Coulson was a smart man.

Bruce wasn't sure about how Tony would react, but he was mildly surprised when, after a moment of consideration, he decided that he wouldn't care how the muti-billionaire reacted. This little project had taken little skill enough, but the busywork had kept his mind from dwelling on other matters. Heaven knew there had been enough of _those_ around recently.

Shaking the sudden introspection from his mind, Bruce turned and called to the other end of the roof, "We're all set, Thor!"

"MANY THANKS, DOCTOR!" the big man boomed back as Bruce scurried out of the way.

"Try to take it—" a loud THWACK as the first carpet-dummy went flying interrupted Bruce mid-speech, "—easy," he finished lamely.

Mjölnir flew through the air, nearly too fast for the eye to follow, and Thor followed not far behind, weaving through the massive poles and erected obstacles constructed from oddments that ranged from scrap metal to a few of Bruce's failed experiments that he would rather not explain. The god's booming laughter somehow found a way to echo across the roof, and Bruce took a seat on an upturned AC unit, wiping the sweat from his neck and squinting into the sun. _Those poles are actually pretty tall_, he mused, _we should probably clear them with flight control this afternoon_. Good. Something else for him to do. They were all just trying to keep busy here.

* * *

Tony emerged, blinking, out into the sun, immediately regretting his decision to leave his sunglasses on his nightstand. From far above came the all-too-joyous sounds of the Norse god at play, and, squinting, he could make out the frail figure of one Dr. Bruce Banner reclining on what appeared to be an old AC unit. Hands in his pockets and avoiding the poles that suddenly pockmarked his roof (_At least they didn't destroy the helipad_, he thought wryly), Tony slowly made his way over to the doctor, who wordlessly shifted over on the quickly-heating box so he could have a seat. They watched Thor zip about for a while, until Bruce broke the silence.

"You're up early," he said, voice devoid of emotion.

"Yeah, I know," Tony replied, lying back and stretching his arms out behind his head, ignoring the twinge in his chest and closing his eyes, "It was a funny thing. I thought I heard a steam shovel on my roof."

"You don't say?" Bruce mused, eyes drifting shut as well, arms crossed across his chest, "I could have sworn it was only a few jackhammers."

"'M pretty sure it was a steam shovel," Tony murmured.

Bruce remained in silent wonderment at this conversation, and Tony could imagine the thoughts running through the doctor's head at this moment.

"You sure you really should be out here?" Tony asked finally, casually.

"What do you mean?" Bruce fought to keep the tightness from his voice.

"I'll bet you've got one hell of a headache right now. Concussions tend to do that to people." Tony nearly yawned, curling up on one side.

"I'm fine," Bruce retorted, "Besides, _you're_ not the one to be talking."

"I'm not the one erecting playgrounds for mythical Norse gods now, am I?"

Bruce bit back a groan of frustration. That would only egg him on. Silence was always the best answer for Tony Stark. Come to think of it, the last time he'd had a one-on-one conversation with the man (if Tony gibbering gleefully and Bruce cursing in reply could be called a conversation) had ended up in Tony falling out of a window and Bruce jumping after him. He'd very much rather not jump out of the Empire State Building again.

A tiny snore came from the man beside him. Bruce sat up in surprise, then immediately regretted it as the roof suddenly tilted and the solid surface beneath him dissolved into billowing waves. Squeezing his eyes shut, he nearly tipped over off the AC unit—and over the roof (again)—when a steadying hand on his back took him away from tilting bridges and billowing oceans and back to the blessedly level, dry roof of Stark Tower.

"You alright, Bruce?" the doctor hadn't even heard Steve come up onto the roof.

"Yeah," he ground out through the jackhammering in his head, "I just need to—" he blinked rapidly, "—lie down for a bit."

"You sure?"

"I'm _fine_," he growled, and to prove it, shoved Steve's arm off and abruptly stood, struggling valiantly against staggering, before striding hurriedly from the roof, shielding his eyes from the sun glare.

Steve stifled a sigh. He was no hired babysitter now. No, he felt the role of psychiatrist coming faster than Thor on caffeine.

* * *

Clint sat brooding in the den, staring from the fridge in the minibar to the clock on the wall. It was barely one o'clock. Way too early to start drinking. Distantly, he could make out Thor's booming voice, but he dismissed the notion of going up to the roof. Heights gave him no pleasure at the moment, and stairs were currently the bane of his existence. He glared moodily at the clock, willing the hands to move faster. A full five minutes passed before the door to the den burst open with a thud and Bruce staggered into the room, sweat-slicked and obviously disoriented.

Forcing himself to relinquish his death grip on his knife, Clint cautiously stood, leaning against the bar counter for support.

"Hey… You okay?" he asked warily.

"'M grrreeat," Bruce slurred, just as he swayed and crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

_All references that don't really make sense are probably from my other story, "Higher than the Empire State." You can read that if you want, but it's not necessary to understand what's going on here. Also, I'm obviously no medical professional, so PLEASE let me know if I made any more glaring errors here.  
_

_Finally, has anyone noticed that we seem to be missing one member of the team? I wonder..._


	5. Chapter 5

_Short update warning! I thought I should post **something** since I found some internet connection._

* * *

Instinctively, Clint sprang forward, biting back a curse as he landed square on his right leg, which buckled and sent him flat on his face beside the doctor. Angrily shoving himself upright, Clint gently turned the doctor onto his back, cradling his head and speaking urgently.

"Bruce…? Bruce, hey, you hear me?" Clint lightly tapped a stubbled cheek.

When there was no response, he checked the doctor's ABC's, found them to be no cause for concern, though the pulse was weaker than he liked. There was no abnormal pupil dilation, and for that, he was relieved. Wrangling himself into a standing position, Clint snatched a few pillows and last night's blanket off the couch, then grabbed his crutches and limped to the kitchen for a plastic cup of cool water that he brought back to the den clenched between his teeth.

Bruce was blinking in confusion by the time Clint returned, gingerly lowering himself into a sitting position on the floor. He reached out and dragged a barstool over, placing the cup under the protection of its four legs to prevent any spills on Tony's precious plush carpet. As he gently eased a pillow under Bruce's head, he glanced at the clock. The doctor had been out for roughly two minutes. Not great but also not a cause for extreme concern.

"Blanket?" Clint asked as if nothing had happened.

"Wha…?" was Bruce's dignified reply.

Clint tossed the ratty thing over him anyways, then sat back against the legs of the barstool and waited.

Bruce continued his owlish blinking, and it was with no small amount of trepidation that Clint realized that the incandescent lighting, however muted, probably wasn't the best for a concussed, migraine-prone, just-unconscious man. The light switch, however, was on the other side of the room. Cursing his immobility, Clint had half-risen to his feet—foot—when the cool, precise voice of the tower's AI offered to dim the lights for him.

"Um… Yeah. Sure," Clint replied, sinking back to the floor as the room darkened.

Out of the quiet, Bruce rasped, "What happened?"

"You passed out," Clint said bluntly.

"Oh… Again?" Bruce willed away the nausea, "This is becoming—" he grunted as he pushed himself into a sitting position, "—entirely too common of an occurrence."

"No crap," Clint grunted, holding the cup of water out to him.

Bruce fumbled with it slightly, a difficulty he attributed to the darkness, but Clint knew better.

They all were struggling, and everyone was refusing to admit it.

* * *

_I know that this is schlepping along at a hardly noticeable rate, but it'll pick up in the next chapter or so. Thanks for sticking with me and please, please, PLEASE leave feedback! :)_


	6. Chapter 6

_It's really early in the U.S., but it's getting pretty late over here, so I thought I'd throw something out.  
Thanks for hanging in here with me. Things will start to pick up now that I've actually (kind of) figured out what it is that I am writing about... :P_

* * *

Steve stood at the roof's edge and stared down at the swirling streets below. The thundering sounds of the city seemed distant, tiny from his perch at what felt like the top of the world. He folded his arms and leaned against the AC unit, wondering what it was that had driven the team apart. He knew it had to do with San Francisco. But they'd had ops go bad before. Sooner or later, they would all regroup and get through the guilt, the nightmares. Together. Now… Steve closed his eyes. It had been almost three weeks since the bridge fell, and there were no signs of reconciliation, no long one-on-one talks that formed the essence of this team.

It was easy enough to guess what had Clint slouching about with storm clouds above his head—the man had been through so much in the past month that it was a wonder he was still alive, much less sane.

He knew that Thor was confused, afraid even, and that was not an emotion he was accustomed to feeling or discussing. Hence the sudden need for "target practice" when they all knew the god was hardwired for war and could never lose his edge.

Tony, however, was always an enigma to him when it came to emotions. So much of the man was built on deception and biting sarcasm that Steve, still light years in the past, could never understand. One thing he knew, however, was that Tony Stark did not take defeat badly. He took it personally.

Bruce probably presented the most difficult case. It was obvious that he was still suffering the effects of falling from the top of the Golden Gate into the Pacific Ocean as his un-green self, but beyond his current physical impairments, Steve could not figure where the man stood in this mess.

The Captain of the disjointed team pinched the bridge of his nose. There was one member of the team that wasn't here. Perhaps that was the reason for the gaping void. Natasha had never been… a people person. She didn't crack jokes, preferring to crack noses instead. She wasn't a great conversationalist, preferring instead hours spent in silence and solitude. But she had been one important part of a previously balanced team that was now staggering drunkenly like a cow that had lost a leg. She could reach under Clint's hardened shell and with no more than a glance set everything right, then with the same glance silence Tony, who would be talking circles around Bruce as Thor would angrily intercede with pointed comments about the "dignity and honor of warriors." She was the peacemaker when all Steve could do was stand aside, lost out of time, and wonder at how fast, how different the world had become.

They all missed her.

* * *

Clint sat on the edge of Tony's balcony. The multi-billionaire was nowhere to be seen, and Clint could no longer stand the confines of the den, leaving a very self-conscious Bruce to himself and the minibar. His legs hung over the edge, and he looped his arms through the railing, hugging it to his chest. The cold, unyielding metal was a poor substitute for the warm body that was supposed to be in its place. He rested his cheek on his arms and closed his eyes, dreaming of long nights and early mornings spent together, not apart. The raging afternoon sun couldn't reach him in the shade of the tower behind him, and a warm breeze rippled through his hair.

There were times when he wouldn't have sat alone on a perch so far removed from the world. Before Natasha, there had been Phil, who with a few quiet words could put his demons to rest. Natasha hadn't even needed words. Just one look, a gentle hand on the shoulder, and everything would be okay.

But now he sat alone. Again. It really was his fault this time. There might have been doubts about his role in Phil's death, false claims of innocence, but with Natasha, he knew. He knew he'd killed her.

He clenched both hands into fists and fought back the memories. He shouldn't be remembering now. He couldn't be. He shouldn't be alive, shouldn't be sitting here with the warm breeze running through his hair like _her_ hand had, the night before, shouldn't be breathing, shouldn't be _fine_ with just a cast on his leg to remind him of what he had done.

What had he done?

He _felt_ it again, felt in his bones the bridge shrug under him and send him staggering sideways, clutching at the arrow just loosed from his string, straining to drag it back, realizing again that he had done what no one believed could ever happen.

He missed.

* * *

_Questions? Comments? Suggestions?_


	7. Chapter 7

_The last of my crammed updates until I get back to the States. Enjoy! :)_

* * *

Tony vaguely wondered what had led him to bake himself on his own roof. Ruefully rubbing at the burning redness that had appeared on the tops of his ears, he decided that it was still too trivial to bother Pepper about. She'd only needed the slightest hint to set her off on one of her worrying sprees recently. He couldn't really blame her, though, what with everything that had happened.

"Sir, Director Fury is here," JARVIS said, cool voice reverberating slightly against the marble tiles.

Tony froze, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror.

"Oh… OH… Okay," he stammered, re-buttoning his cuff links and bolting out the door.

* * *

Clint heard Tony sprint out of the bathroom. The man hadn't even noticed him sitting out on his balcony, and Clint couldn't say that he minded. He only vaguely wondered what had peeled Tony away from his preening session. Something at the lab had probably caught on fire again.

He had just settled back into his now-familiar brooding position when the glass door behind him slammed open and shattered, sending a tinkling shower of rain onto the patio.

Whirling as best he could, Clint had a knife in his hand before Thor could blink.

The Norse god held up both hands in a vague peace gesture, "My apologies, Clint Barton. It appears as if I have startled you."

"No crap," Clint muttered, sheathing his knife, "What's happening?"

"I appear to have broken The Man of Iron's door."

"No crap," Clint repeated, "What has you all running around like headless chickens? Is the world finally ending?"

Thor frowned, "I am afraid I do not understand—"

"Fury's here, isn't he?"

Thor looked away uneasily. "Yes. The Director is here. He wishes to see all of us."

"All of us," Clint scoffed, "It won't make much more of a difference if _another_ one of _us_ is missing from this terribly important meeting, will it?"

"The Director did mention your name specifically, Clint Barton," Thor said cautiously.

"Oh?" Clint cocked an eyebrow, "And I wonder why that may be."

"I am afraid the Director did not say," Thor replied apologetically.

"Of course he didn't," Clint snorted, "We all know exactly what this 'meeting' is supposed to be about. I don't need to hear it, least of all from a bald, one-eyed old man."

Thor stiffened.

"And don't you lecture me on honor and _respect_," Clint spat, turning back around so that he was once again staring at the streets below, "I've had enough of _that_ to last a lifetime."

* * *

Nick Fury entered Tony Stark's spacious bedroom just in time to catch the words "bald, one-eyed old man" drift in through the shattered glass door. He snorted quietly to himself. Barton had never been one for respect, a sentiment that was confirmed in the archer's next angry exclamation.

He'd had his reservations about coming to the team today. From what Steve had told him, Romanoff's death had shot a hole straight through their sails. Good. That would give them the incentive God only knew they needed for this next mission.

A rare pang of guilt ran through the Director. Was he using them? Of course he was, he reminded himself; that was his job. To put them to use, to keep them running like finely tuned machines. This was imperative.

He shouldered Thor aside and stepped out onto the patio.

"You might want to come to this meeting, Agent Barton," Fury said blandly, "There's something you might like to hear."

Clint didn't reply, choosing instead to continue staring out across the city.

"If you want me to hear it so badly, you may as well just say it here," the archer said at last, voice heavy and caustic, "I'm sure the world won't mind your top-secret secret-ness."

_Should I tell him now?_ Fur thought, _Why not? There's less for him to destroy out here, and I'm sure Stark won't mind rebuilding the patio as well, considering what's been done to the roof._ He drew a deep breath, steeling himself for the explosion that, strangely enough, never came.

"We need you on a rescue mission. A high-value S.H.I.E.L.D. operative has been taken captive, and it is imperative that we recover her immediately."

Clint froze, sat up straight, hardly daring to hope.

"Who is it?" he whispered, words chased away by the wind.

Fury's tone was almost gentle, "I think you know, Clint."

The archer whirled around, on his feet in a moment, eyes wide, hands grasping the rail behind him to keep him aware, awake, _alive_.

"Natasha?"

"It'll take more than falling bridges and misfired arrows to kill her, Agent Barton, but time is ticking," he turned and strode past an open-mouthed Thor, "Downstairs in the briefing room. NOW."

Clint reached a trembling hand out for his crutches, ears ringing, fingers numb.

"She's alive," he breathed.

"She's alive!"

* * *

_Did you really think I could kill off Natasha? :(  
And did any of you catch my glaring error a few chapters ago regarding another character that is _supposed_ to be dead as well but obviously isn't?  
I wonder..._


	8. Chapter 8

_What can I say? Sorry? (to anyone that's left, that is...)_

* * *

Tony drummed his fingers on the cool marble of the conference table, legs kicked up next to him, chair balanced on its two hind legs, left hand beating out a syncopated rhythm on his thigh.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling in vain to block out the thunder of Tony's finger band. His head pulsed in agony.

Steve chewed a hangnail, staring blankly at his blurred reflection in the table. He wasn't nervous. Fury had put in several dozen appearances at Stark Tower before. Everything was fine. Normal.

Thor stomped in through the door, casting a look behind him that could only be considered wary, then stalked to his customary chair and seated himself with a screech of metal.

Clint entered next, looking so unsteady on his crutches that Steve thought he may as well keel over right then and there.

Fury followed close behind, face, as per usual, blander than his eye patch.

Unconsciously, Steve straightened in his chair.

The thick, oaken door slid shut as JARVIS dimmed the lights. The director tapped the edge of the table, and a blue hologram of a non-descript office structure sprang to life.

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Clint flinch.

"We have received intelligence of recent suspicious activity at this building located on the outskirts of Angarsk, Russia. An extremely valuable SHIELD asset is being detained here, and you are to retrieve her at all costs."

Fury flicked an index finger, sending the top two floors of the blue building skittering down the table to leave them with a clear floor plan of the building's third floor. With a snap of his fingers, he brought up a shimmering picture of an unassuming, balding, sixty-ish-year-old man, a bemused Mona Lisa quirk to his lips.

Clint flinched again. Steve glanced at him in concern. He was sure that the archer's pallor could not be entirely attributed to the sickly blue light of the conference room.

"This is Abram Solovyov, formerly known as the head of the Black Widow organization."

This time, it was Steve who flinched.

He wasn't the only one. The entire room suddenly fell deathly silent as the air shriveled up and made breathing difficult. Tony's fingers froze mid-beat above the table.

Fury continued, his voice a death-knell in the brittle air.

"You will have a full covered entry, a smash-and-grab operation most of you should be familiar with," he glanced meaningfully at Bruce, tapping another finger on the table and seemingly pulling the building up by its base, exposing two sprawling, subterranean levels outlined in blue.

"Entry points here—" he jabbed a finger at a sewage line, which lit up in bright green, "and here," he highlighted a row of windows on the third floor.

Tony scratched at his chin stubble. "That entry point on the third floor is a bit oversized, even for the big guy, don't you think?"

Steve winced, glancing at Bruce, who had closed his eyes and appeared to be meditating.

Fury ignored him, continuing, "Further details will be found in your individual files. We will have another briefing tomorrow morning at 0700. Our calculated departure time will be in approximately one week, depending on the medical clearance of certain members of this team," he made eye contact with Clint, whose stony expression never wavered. Fury tapped the edge of the table, and the hologram melted silently back into the nothingness. The house lights slowly came back on, and Steve found himself staring again at his reflection in the table. Something was not quite right. There was too much left unmentioned, unknown. He felt Fury looking at him, and when their eyes met, the Captain knew he was right.

"Do we get to know who this 'extremely valuable SHIELD asset' is?" Tony drawled, leaning ever further back in his chair, "Or are you sending a bunch of cripples and madmen to another godforsaken Russian city just to see us fail again?"

"Tony…" Steve said warningly.

"I have brought _this_ case to _this_ team alone, and for no other reason than the fact that I believe you are aptly motivated to execute the mission to the best of your respective abilities," Fury replied, setting both hands on the table.

"Motivated? _We're_ motivated?" Tony snorted, slamming his chair legs down with a crash, "We're so motivated that we're building _playgrounds_ for Norse gods on _the roof of my house!_"

Thor shoved his chair back with a screech, "You go too far, Man of Iron," he snarled, hand flexing. Beside him, Bruce lowered his head into his hands.

Steve also sprang to his feet, shouting, "Hey! Enough, you guys!"

His demand went unheeded as Tony, too, pushed his chair to the ground.

Fury stood with his arms folded, above the chaos.

Tony continued, his voice rising, directing his fury at the impassive Director, "How can you expect us to just go out like nothing ever happened? To pretend that we never failed at the Golden Gate, that Natasha isn't dead _because of us_?"

Fury opened his mouth to speak, but Tony bowled him over, gesticulating wildly with his arms. "One week is not enough time to fix fractured tibias and severe concussions, but that's only what's _physically_ wrong with us, as if _that's_ not enough," he paused to draw breath, one hand straying unconsciously to his chest.

Steve jumped in, struggling to find the words, "Tony, we get where you're coming from—"

"—No you don't," Tony snapped, "You're just so out of touch with the world that you think you do." "He turned and glared again at the director, "How do we even know that this intel is solid? The last time you walked into this room, everything you said blew up in our faces. Literally. How will you—"

The door opened, and a man stepped into the room. Tony froze, mouth gaping.

"I _hope_ that the intel is solid," Phil Coulson said, lips quirked in a familiar wry smile, "It really would have sucked to die for nothing."


	9. Chapter 9

_I felt like this chapter just had to be written. I hope I did these two justice._

* * *

"_The graveyard, the graveyard all full of light  
Blood as ice is an empty crisis, lonely it lies  
Whoa-ah-ah-ah ah-ah, bring 'em all back to life"  
~ Feist, _Graveyard

* * *

Clint clenched his hands into fists, struggling to keep them from the trembling that had begun half an hour ago downstairs in the conference room. The wind had turned nippy, biting at the thin fabric of his shirt, a chill that had begun to sink into the numbness of his heart. How he had gotten to the roof he wouldn't know, but he stood there alone, next to an overturned air conditioning unit that spoke so invitingly to him as a perch.

He couldn't move. He just stood there frozen, staring across the vast jumble of steel and concrete that was New York, wind stinging his eyes. He blinked rapidly, dipping his head to swipe the tears away. Slumping his shoulders, he stared at the cracks in the ground, the crumbs of concrete left over from Bruce's morning exertions. Little spider webs and trails of nothingness dissolving into dust and blown away by the weeping winds.

Clint snorted softly to himself. Melodrama had never been a part of his personality. It had always been Phil's strong suit. Phil and his ridiculous Shakespearean Sonnet Saturdays and Socratic Sundays. Then there were Tragedy Tuesdays. Clint had once blasted the Bee Gees version of this "incredibly important literary genre" and received a week in Andorra for his pains. Andorra. Tiny little country sandwiched and forgotten between France and Spain and home to the _lamest _drug cartels on the face of this planet. Of course Phil had shown up on Sunday with that idiotic half-grin and _Oedipus Rex_ tucked under his arm. Clint had promptly removed two golden ten-Kronor pieces from his wallet and prepared to plunge his eyes out before promptly dissolving into helpless laughter and taking Phil for a spin down through the fresh powder in La Massana.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"It's quite the jungle, isn't it?"

Clint squeezed his eyes shut. His voice raised the hairs on his neck. How many times in the past year had he dreamed of this moment? Of having all his fears being proven wrong?

A soft footstep brought them together.

Clint remained hunched over, refusing to move, to shatter what had to be some sort of trick.

Phil Coulson stood beside him in silence, just as he always did because he never failed to understand how Clint felt. He knew when to crack a gentle joke, when to land a slap on the back, when to dive into "roses on a summer's day," and most of all, when to shut up.

So he stood there, arms clasped behind his back, without a word, so close that Clint could feel Phil's coat brush against his fingers.

He had to say something, _anything_ to keep this dream alive. He couldn't bear to wake up this time to find that Phil was gone that that he was again a murderer.

And so he said the first thing that came to his mind, which also turned out to be the least intelligent statement of his life.

"You're supposed to be dead."

A beat of silence.

"I know."

The response was so matter-of-fact, so _Phil_ that he jerked his head up to stare at the man beside him in bewilderment.

The Phil Coulson beside him was leaner, paler than the man he had last seen before The Tesseract. A turtleneck sweater wrapped him to his chin, and a thick wool coat flapped around him loosely, despite the sun shining brightly behind them, casting their sharp, angular shadows off the roof together. Here was Phil. Phil was _here_.

He caught Clint's eye and gave that sad, half-quirk of the lips Clint had missed so much.

"I'm not dead anymore, and I've quite lost the taste for being dead," Phil said flatly, mouth twitching, "You can stop looking at me like I'm going to jump off this building any second."

Clint couldn't help the grin that broke out across his face.

"Phil Coulson, you miserable son of a—"

"—Don't go insulting my mother now, Barton. That's a terrible way to greet your best friend recently returned to life."

"I'm not the one with the Oedipus complex here," Clint snorted, dashing a hand across his eyes, "And since when have you been my best friend?"

"Longer than you know it, kiddo," Phil smirked, eyes crinkling in that familiar smile, "The way you tore out of that conference room, though. It was like I was Raul Messoul reincarnate. I'm heartbroken"

Clint scowled at the reference to the Colombian crime lord, "Well, I'm really freakin' sorry I didn't exactly welcome you back with open arms. It's kind of been a rough day, you know? 'Tasha's—" he faltered, "—'Tasha's alive, and so are you. Way to make my day and ruin it all at the same time."

"Ruin it?" Phil cocked his head to the side, a motion that always reminded Clint of those incredibly _stupid_ sparrows that were always hopping around pecking at dirt pieces and dried gum for a piece of food or something. Looking for the good in everything.

"Natasha's alive, but she's in Russia. With Solovyov, and with everyone so far from being up to scratch," Clint shook his head, "_Fury_ could beat us all to a pulp single-handed. We've got a lot to do in a week. Bruce needs to be able to make through the day without passing out. Tony's got to be able to lift his arms above his head without having to wheeze for breath like a dying whale. And I've… I've got to learn how to walk again."

Phil smiled wryly again, turning away to glance over the city, "If you've got so much to do, why are you still standing here talking to a dead man?"

Clint blinked and looked away, squinting at the jungle below them where the world awaited.

"Because I've missed you, old man."

* * *

_It's time to go into superhero mode! Let me know what you all think._


End file.
